My wife usually makes the appointment for me, and reminds me that I’m to fast for what seems like three days beforehand. Whoever coined the term “fast” was a sickening optimist or a wishful thinker. By the time I find myself sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, I’m ready to kill and eat one of the nurses. A pregnant lady sitting across from me pulls a Twinkie out of her purse and starts to snack. It’s only by a supreme effort of self control that I can keep from whining like a sick fire truck.
Frieda, a Nurse with a face that would make Hulk Hogan look effeminate, steps into the room. “what’s that noise?” she says “Where’s the fire?” A bit of drool escapes from my mouth as I emit a low growl. “Mr. Holton,” she continues, “while we’re waiting for the doctor, could you fill this cup, please”. She holds out a small plastic vial. “Not from here.” I say. She looks disgruntled, obviously missing my humor. “If you would just go to the restroom and relieve yourself and then bring this to me half full, please.” It sounds as if I’m supposed to give myself a foot massage or something. I start to wonder about the caloric value of the paper towels in the bathroom.
It’s not as bad as when I was in the Army. At least I get the bathroom to myself. The Army had a policy that the Non Commissioned Officer in charge of the “random drug testing” had to physically observe you filling the cup. This, however, is a physiological impossibility, especially when the NCO in question insists on acting like a major league umpire and shouting “Come on, son, FILL IT, FILL IT NOW!!”
I am soon escorted to a small room with an examination table in it, and instructed to strip to my skivvies and wait for the doctor. The room is freezing. I feel like I’m sitting inside one of those cases at the grocery store where they store the frozen pizza. Pizza…..a bit of drool escapes my mouth and freezes on my chin. It’s February, but it’s got to be warmer outside than it is in this room. I go to the floor to ceiling window at one end of my cell and pull the shade, looking for a way to open it. Several people in the parking lot outside stop and stare before I realize that I’m in my skivvies. They act like they’ve never seen goose bumps before.
The doctor must be very popular, since he must have stopped somewhere on the way to my room to do a book signing or something. By the time he bursts into the room I’m chewing on a tongue depressor in a hypothermic stupor. “Cribbing, yes?” he says thoughtfully and makes a mark on his clipboard. “I’ve never played,” I answer. After thumping on my back in a few places while having me demonstrate that I still know how to breathe, we come to the dreaded “turn your head” routine. I suddenly become painfully aware of what took the doctor so long to get here. He wasn’t at a book signing, he was involved in a snowball fight, without mittens. “Cough.” The doctor commands, but I’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.
Then, just when I think the worst is over, he says "Now, turn around, please."
I just wonder who first thought up this procedure. I'd wager it was a bunch of rowdy medical grad students that wanted to play a joke on the new guys. "Okay, now you need to learn to check a prostate..." they'd say, snickering into their lab coats.
It's no wonder most men would rather amputate their own toes with a pizza roller than get their annual checkup. It's humiliating, and I pay money for it. Annually.
It reminds me of what Ray Stephens once said,
“The practice of medicine is a must, but must they always practice on us?”
-- 
Chuck (woah@mission4me.com), March 04, 2002